Shadows in the Sun
by Pale Treasures
Summary: AU. Sansa is the one who is imprisoned for Joffrey's murder, rather than Tyrion. Tyrion pays her a visit. One shot.


**Disclaimer: **You know the drill. George R. R. Martin, HBO, etc., own it all. I'm just borrowing the characters.

**Rating: **K+

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**Shadows in the Sun**

The cell is dimly lit, damp and cold. During the day, the scarce sun rays that manage to steal inside can barely lend it a semblance of warmth. At night, she despairs of it entirely. She wraps her arms around herself, tightly and claw-like, and even though she grows no warmer because of it the gesture is so involuntary by now that she can no longer cease to perform it.

She doesn't know how long she's been here, how long it's been since everything. She ponders about the events that led to her arrest with something almost like awe. Joffrey must be cold in his grave by now – and, even though she had no hand in his murder, she can't help but be glad that he's dead. The warm summer season advances slowly, in all its drowsy luxury and color, towards its demise, people get imperceptibly older with each passing minute, and the canniest minds in the realm must be abuzz with the implications of this unexpected death. Not all is quiet, then; the stillness is only superficial. But she can almost believe that it's real, when she closes her eyes, soaking up the dreamy peace around her, disregarding the cold that manages to steal into every crevice of the stone and dampen her dirty and clammy gown; until, at last, she feels summer's warm, kindly breath ghost her skin, smells the pollen of the flowers, breaking free and whirling in the golden sunlight like a dream, tastes the salty breeze that wafts up from the sea. And, in spite of her trepidation, that dims a little every day, in spite of her almost certain death, which is tardy in coming but will surely make its appearance soon enough, she knows that life is beautiful. Life, and what it means and looks like when there are no people around to taint it, is beautiful. And regardless of what it throws at her, she can never forget it.

She has only one visitor. She had been surprised the first time he had come. She had thought he would want to shield himself from any further suspicion, protect himself at all costs. It was the kind of thing he would do. Apparently, he had not cared for that. Because he had come, and he kept coming, and he was the only one who ever bothered to see her after her downfall.

Tyrion.

She still cannot understand why he had come, and why he keeps coming. She is sure she does not make for good company, but that doesn't seem to be what he's looking for. More often than not, they don't talk much, and have no need to. Strangely, she does feel that; that they have no need to constantly seek conversation, that silence, rather than uncomfortable, was comforting. Sometimes, she forgot he was there, and was left alone with her own thoughts, and he with his; and their relationship, if one could even call it that, didn't seem to be any worse for the wear because of such mutual abstraction.

She has never had that with anyone before; she had hoped it existed, but had never known anyone she could share it with. If she had been told that that person would be Tyrion Lannister, she wouldn't have known whether to feel appalled or amused. Very likely, she wouldn't even have had the strength of character for amusement. She would have just been horrified.

She's not horrified anymore. She merely takes it as it comes. There are far worse things to be afraid of or repulsed by these days. And, if she is to be honest with herself, there are times when loneliness and dread weigh down on her, and she feels in desperate need of company, anyone's company. Looking back, she thinks she could have done rather worse than Tyrion. At least, she knows him, and they are no longer complete strangers to each other, at least not quite.

She is not expecting him today, which is why she starts and sits up straighter when she hears the jingle of the jailor's keys and the creaking of the door as it opens. She's sitting in a rank patch of straw, which disgusts her but is the only soft place where she can sit and, at night, lie down on. When twilight comes and she feels weary and aching all over after another long day in the same position, she feels glad for that softness, dank and sour-smelling as it is.

She has shed her embarrassment over her position long ago; yet, when she sees him, only partially illuminated in the dim cell, looking almost ominous, she feels a stab of discomfiture and fidgets awkwardly on the damp straw. She is well aware of how she must look alike; her hair hasn't been washed in days, she must be pale from the lack of sun and air, her dress is a pitiful shadow of what it used to be, and humiliatingly soiled in a way she never thought she would soil a dress before. For the first time since he's been visiting her, she doesn't want him to see her like this. But she can't stop him, he's inside already, and she doubts he would go away even if she told him to.

"Sansa." His soft, composed voice fills the silence.

She's staring down at her skirts, her every muscle taut, tears burning the back of her throat. Suddenly, she's no longer sure why she feels like crying. "You needn't have come."

"On the contrary. I had every reason to come." She hears him advance softly, but does not look up. He stops before her. "How are you, Sansa?" And she detects such gentleness and patience in his voice, it's all she can do to hold back distraught tears.

"I'm well," she says with a great deal of effort. Her voice threatens to crack.

"Are you, really?" He crouches before her, cocks his head in order to make her meet his eyes. And there is nothing else she wants more than meeting his eyes, permitting herself this small shred of comfort she is sure to get from him, but she can't make herself do so, does not dare do so. She fears that, if she does, she will sully something of monumental importance. There is very little left to her life. She doesn't want to ruin anything else.

"Sansa. It's alright. You don't have to be ashamed. None of this is your fault." She can no longer resist his soothing, softly beseeching tone. She raises red-rimmed eyes to his.

"So you still believe it?" she demands, partly vexed, partly eager for reassurance. Her voice is hoarse. "You believe that I didn't do this?"

"I do, Sansa, as I've always believed. I never thought for a moment that you were the one to kill Joffrey, although you had every reason to. Trust me, I would not have blamed you if you _had _killed him."

Something loosens in her chest, a surprising relief washes over her, making her slump back against the hard stone, uncaring, once more, how she looks and how he might perceive her. She dares to meet his eyes fully. She felt them fixed on her face, and now she sees they are earnest and concerned and something else, something that makes him look like a dog. For the first time since she remembers being better acquainted with him, the expression registers with her as something different, disquieting, something the meaning of which she cannot yet contemplate. She looks away, a long unfelt and entirely forgotten blush creeping up her cheeks, giving her the color she otherwise lacks.

"Thank you for coming," she whispers at last. "It's better when you come."

She does not know what made her utter these words, or why she suddenly felt so compelled to do so. She spies on his countenance from under her lashes.

"You know you don't need to thank me."

She looks up at him again. At last, strength wanes and tears glimmer in her eyes.

"I am so deeply sorry, Sansa. I never for a minute thought they would actually go through with this – that they would go for _you_. As far as they're concerned – particularly Cersei – the matter has been settled, but I assure you," his voice lowers considerably, "that I am doing everything in my power, along with others, to find out who truly did this. I am not letting anyone hurt you." His voice hardens, heavy with something she cannot quite name, as though he is making a vow. The sound dies away before she can make anything of it; she turns the memory of it over and over in her mind, confused, intrigued, oddly hungry to hear it again.

But his previous words did not fail to make an impact, either.

"How will you do such a thing?" she whispers, lower than usual as well. "You will get yourself in trouble."

Tyrion's lips purse into a sort of smile which conveys gratitude but also a very marked bitterness.

"I am not worried for myself; trouble and I have been close acquaintances for so long that no one thinks much of the association any longer. And even if they did," he abruptly meets her eyes, with that odd look again, "it would have been worth it if it meant I could help you."

"I don't want anything to happen to you." The words flee from her lips before she can do anything to help it, even though she lacks the awareness that she had so much as thought them. Her heart skips a beat and then races in panic and mortification. Almost imperceptibly, she crawls back further against the wall.

"You are very kind." His voice and gaze alike soften. His eyes hold her eyes and she finds herself staring back at him. Her mind empties pleasantly, and it's the greatest comfort she has found in days, perhaps longer. "I wish I could do more for you. If there was anything I could bring you, anything I could do to make you more comfortable, I would."

"They would not allow that," she counters dully.

"No, they would not. But I would try, all the same."

She looks him square in the eye, and her voice quivers in spite of the resolve in it. "I only want to get out of here. I want them to know I didn't kill him."

He holds her hand. Slowly, deliberately, it steals across hers and grasps it. Somehow, it feels like the first time that he touches her like this. She stares down at her hand inside his, confused, partly frightened, but, again, curious. Her eyes lift to his.

"You will," he vows quietly. "You will not be here for long, Sansa, you have my word. You have been exceedingly brave – I only beg you to remain so for a little while longer."

She searches his face, suspicious, confused, her heart pounding with fierce, joyous beginnings of hope, and yet simultaneously sinking under a cold, ominous shade.

Then, he leans forward and does something he has never done since their wedding day; he kisses her. His right hand cradles her skull as he draws near and his lips touch her forehead with the same deliberate quality he imprinted to his words and touch a moment ago. He lingers for a moment, surprising her, then pulls back.

"I will come again soon, Sansa."

"Can you not stay for a while longer?" she asks. Pleads. Her voice quivers dangerously, like a child's. It is only now that she realizes how much she needs him, how much his presence delivers her from something unspeakably dark that ghosts through these walls and sinks its teeth into her; perhaps it has always been a part of her. Perhaps it was always lurking inside, malevolently and patiently waiting, even when she was at the height of her innocence.

She does not know if he sees that, but it doesn't matter if he doesn't. The fact is that she needs him; with him here, she can breathe, even if she cannot hope, and breath to her stifled, hungry lungs is something far better than hope. The sight of him to her light-famished eyes is better than hope. His very existence keeps her safe. Keeps her alive.

"I'm sorry. I would if I could. But I will return soon, I promise." He gets up and begins to retreat, but his eyes remain fixed on hers. She acknowledges uneasily that he _has_ made her a promise. Again, she wonders just what is going on outside, but cannot begin to imagine it. Whatever it is, though, she is at the center of it. And she realizes that, in spite of the renewal of her hope, of whatever it is that's making her breathe easier, it's not only about her safety that she has to worry about now.

Tyrion taps the door and the jingle of keys resounds as a response. He looks over his shoulder to stare at her one last time. She can only stare back. There seems to be nothing else to say, nothing she _could_ say, after everything. So she doesn't; she might regret it afterwards, but she doesn't. Neither does he. His eyes hold hers and he says quietly, somewhat wistfully, "We will see each other soon, Sansa."

Hope bursts in her breast again as she notices how he never utters the word goodbye. There is a true chance, then. A chance that she will get out of here at some point. If nothing happens. If no one dies. She shudders, and darkness swiftly returns to envelop her.

Tyrion is swallowed by the shadows as he leaves the cell. The laborious creak of the door as it closes jars on her nerves. Then, there's only silence. She's alone again as though this brief interlude was nothing but a dream.

She remembers his words. He was working on her release, along with others. Who were the others? Could it be that anyone actually cared about proving her innocence? Not about _her_, of course – as much as she'd liked to hope – but about maintaining the least shred of justice so that she won't have to die in someone else's place? Whoever killed Joffrey did the realm a favor, it's true, and she feels no horror or resentment toward this unknown person. But she doesn't want to die for anyone. She doesn't want pain. She only wants to go back outside and breathe in the summer air until she's dizzy. She wants to remind herself she's alive the best way she knows how.

She no longer believes in the power of prayer, but nonetheless she inwardly says a hasty one, asking for the success of whoever is involved in the enterprise of trying to rescue her, and for Tyrion's safety. More than her hope of seeing her incarceration ended, there's _him_. She doesn't know in what light he presents himself and with what amount of importance to her, not yet, but she does know that her release at the expense of his life would be a very bitter victory – that perhaps… perhaps it would be _very_ difficult to recover from that. She remembers her distant days of physical freedom, his decency and kindness toward her when no one else cared for her, and a queer pain tightens her breast.

Leaning against the wall, she closes her eyes. There's so little light anyway that it's pointless to wait for nighttime to try and sleep. The longer she's unconscious, the faster time passes. And regardless of whether she's released or condemned to death, she wants it to happen quickly. She thinks of her father's last days, wonders if he felt the same things, if he just wanted it all to be over at a certain point. How ironic that they should end up in the same position; that perhaps their heads will be cut off with the same sword.

Sansa sighs ever so softly and feels her body go limp. It's a relief. Her last memory of the narrow blade of sunlight she saw a moment ago begins to dim and die behind her eyelids. The shadows pull her under, and she welcomes oblivion.

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**So, was there a point to this? Not really; I genuinely have no idea what would happen next or how Tyrion would get her out (though I'm sure he'd find a way). I just love these two so much and wanted write something about them again since dropping my other, would-be multichaptered Sansa/Tyrion story (called _Gentle is the Mouth of the Lion, Soft is the Heart of the Wolf - _those of you who haven't read it may do so, by the way. ;) ) In short, this is basically a pointless piece that I wrote just to focus on them again and satisfy my longing for them - s4 didn't have nearly enough moments of them together, especially the latter half. I hope fans of this couple will be happy to read it, as I was to write it.  
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**Just in case I wasn't clear above: this story is COMPLETE.**


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